March 25: Nothingth, Monday Night, Pasty

And now for the rescue of Ford and Arthur . . . or the start of the chapter where they are rescued . . .

A computer chattered to itself in alarm as it noticed an airlock open and close itself for no apparent reason.

This was because reason was in fact out to lunch.

A hole had just appeared in the Galaxy.  It was exactly a nothingth of a second long, a nothingth of an inch wide, and quite a lot of millions of light-years from end to end.

Okay, I know that's not a whole lot from Hitchhiker's, but I don't have a whole lot of time.  It is Monday, and, therefore, I have less than an hour in between teaching classes to post something.  While I am blogging, I also have to wolf down my dinner.  Basically, what I'm saying is that you should expect me to say nothingth very profound this evening.

Mondays always feel like a race to me.  I race to work, at work, race to the university, at the university, and then I race home and collapse.  In between all that racing, I try to squeeze in a few moments of self-care--like eating.  My quick dinner of choice tonight is totally Yooper:

For those of my disciples who have no idea what that is, you must lead very sheltered and boring lives.  That is a pasty.  Basically, it's a Cornish meat pie.  In the Upper Peninsula, Cornish immigrants who worked in the mines used to pack them in their lunch pails and take them underground for their ten- or twelve-hour shifts.  It has everything you could want in a meal--bread and potatoes and meat.  Some people include onion and carrots and rutabaga, as well.  It's a hearty and satisfying meal, especially if you don't have a lot of time to eat.

I don't have a whole lot of time to eat tonight, so I grabbed a pasty from my refrigerator at home.  It looks and smells delicious.  I know that this isn't normally a food blog, but I will say that some of the best pasties around are made by the folks at my wife's church.  The crust in brown and flaky.  The insides are peppered to perfection.  Just sprinkle a little salt on top, and I would spend a weekend in a cheap motel with it.

I have three hours of teaching left.  My eyes are burning a little, and I can feel sleep settling into my muscles.  I need a nap.  So, you will excuse me if I eat and then close my eyes for a few minutes.

Saint Marty's pasty is getting cold.

May 8: Mother's Day, Pasties, Classic Saint Marty

It is Mother's Day in the United States, the day set aside to celebrate--you guessed it--mothers. 

It has been a fairly laid-back day.  Quiet.  Church this morning.  After church, we went to place some flowers at my wife's mother's grave and my sister's grave.  Now, I'm watching Jurassic World with my wife and kids.  (My daughter gave my wife the entire Jurassic Park series for Mother's Day.)

Tonight, we will have a traditional Mother's Day dinner--pasties.  Well, it's traditional in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  If you don't know what a pasty is, I'm not sure I'll be able to explain it adequately.  First, let me say that a pasty (pronounced like "nasty") is not the nipple cover worn by strippers and pole dancers.  A pasty is a Cornish meat pie that miners used to eat.  Contained within its crust is usually meat and potato and rutabaga, sometimes onion and carrot, as well.  I have eaten some pasties where peas have been thrown into the mixture, although that's kind of a bastardization of the dish.

I have no idea why I have suddenly turned this post into a food blog.  Maybe I'm hungry.  All I do know is that, in a couple of hours, I will be eating a hot pasty made by the descendants of Cornish immigrants at my wife's church.  It will be delicious.

Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired in 2014, on a decidedly unhappy day in my life.  My brother had just died.  I was being kicked out of a job that I'd held for 14 years.  Fast forward to today.  I am on the verge of returning to the job that I left two years ago.  I lost my sister about a year after my brother.  I am still teaching, still living in the same two-bedroom/one-bathroom house, still worrying about bills.  Things change.  Things stay the same.

May 8, 2014:  Worst Day, Waves of Sadness, Walking Out

Wilbur couldn't believe what was happening to him when Lurvy caught him and forced the medicine down his throat.  This was certainly the worst day of his life.  He didn't know whether he could endure the awful loneliness any more.

Wilbur has just arrived at the Zuckerman farm.  He misses Fern.  None of the other animals in the barn are being particularly friendly to him.  Lurvy has just forced "sulphur" and molasses down his throat.  His young life has reached a pretty low point.

This evening, I understand Wilbur's state of mind.  It was my last day of work at the medical office.  All day long, coworkers kept saying how much they were going to miss me.  In between, I had family and friends calling me about my brother.  Every time someone said "I'm so sorry" on the phone, I'd start crying.  I was hoping to be stoic and strong, like a Viking or something.  Instead, I was Shirley MacLaine at the end of Terms of Endearment, coming unglued.

As I was walking out of the medical office at the end of the day, I looked back at what has been my desk for the past 14 years.  It was like I'd been erased.  Depressing.  So, to bolster my spirits, I came to my office at the university and boxed up the rest of my belongings for the big move to the new English Department in July.  That was a mistake, too.  The fact that I can fit 17 or 18 years of my life into five small boxes was pretty depressing, too.

So, I'm crapping out all over the place tonight.

When Saint Marty gets home tonight, he's going to have a very big drink.  And he ain't talking about chocolate milk.

Saint Marty this afternoon